Good Friends

by Yvonne Eliot

They had lunch together a couple of months after the breakup. It went really well: they talked about work, mutual friends, maybe collaborating again on that writing project. For the most part, it was friendly, companionable, with only a couple of awkward moments where one or the other wasn't sure if the conversation had started to drift toward old roles, habitual intimacies which were no longer appropriate, but each time they dragged things back to safer ground, and the ambiance of casual friendship was preserved. Afterward, she gave him a quick hug, saying how glad she was they could still be friends, and that it meant a lot to her. He watched her walk away, that brief contact with her body burning through his clothes, against his skin, feeling the ghost of her mouth, her tongue, her scent, her laugh, her eyes, the way she always seemed to know what he meant even when he wasn't sure himself. Through the window of the restaurant, he saw her get into her car and start to drive off, and he finally allowed his mask to fall away, leaving nothing but his heart in his eyes.